Baymont scores on a lucky bounce that skips past Mountain’s blocker side. Our second line answers quickly. Kane crashes the net and hammers the rebound home. Four–five our way.
Baymont gets another breakaway. Mountain sprawls andmakes the glove save of the night. He pops up with a snarl that whips the crowd into a frenzy. He bangs his stick against the post and points at the scoreboard like it owes him something. People whisper behind me, shocked by his outburst. I get it. Mountain is usually the quiet one, but when it comes to this game, he becomes someone else entirely.
Both teams go back and forth until Baymont finally clears another shot. Then the whistle blows.
Third period. Five–five. Tied.
Whatever tension I had before is at an all-time high now. Coach finally taps my shoulder. I glance up at him, and he tips his head toward the ice. I nod and hop the boards. The weight hits me the second my skates touch the sheet. Every eye in the house, every whisper, every click of a camera feels especially daunting. They’re all watching. All counting on me to help bring it home.
I roll my neck, mentally preparing myself, pushing all of the negative thoughts from my mind. I home in until there is nothing but me, the referee, and the puck in his hand. Tonight’s win will be mine. My father will finally see that I’m more than what he’s damned me to be, and Aaron will eat shit.
The puck drops, and we control possession. Blood rushes to my ears, and I pump hard, cutting across and dodging a check. My boys watch me closely, blocking anyone in my path. I get the puck, run it home, the sound of guys being knocked to the side behind me as my backdrop.
This is it. The winning shot. It’s clear, and wide open. I suck in a breath, raise my stick, and shoot.
Too high.
It slams into the glass with a hollow thud.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I wheel back, ready to chase the puck, but Kane snags it, turns, and rifles it into the top corner. The goal light flares, the horn screams, and the bench erupts.
We won.
Bodies fly onto the ice, swarming Kane, helmets and gloves thrown to the floor, sticks lifted. As I peel toward my friend, my mouth is instantly dry. We won; that’s a good thing, right? Then why does it feel like a failure?
When I reach Kane, his eyes drift to the private area where my father and the sponsors sit to watch the games. I follow his line of sight, expecting to see my father’s angry mug. But the section is empty. No suit, no snarl, no Richard Williamsburg. Didn’t even bother to stay for the win.
Why would he? I’d already lost the puck several times and spent the bulk of the game on the bench. I know what to expect from my father, but his coldness and the dismissal don’t hurt any less.
I push off the ice and down the tunnel, the noise from the arena fading with each stride. My gear feels heavy, my chest even more so.
Sam’s standing at the end, a clipboard in hand, one foot propped against the cinderblock wall. Her gaze flicks up as I approach. She stands, and a playful smile starts to form on her lips.
“You’re not terrible,” she says, tone light and easy. “Kind of hoped you were garbage for all the shit y’all have put me through. But it turns out… you’re actually good.”
While her words heal some wound inside, I don’t smile. My lips and fist still sting from the fight, and all the rage from my father’s rejection starts to boil inside me again.
“You want information?” I ask, no warning and no warm-up.
She straightens, slightly surprised if the knitted brows are any indication.
“Meet me tonight.” I walk past her, the heat in my body coiling tighter with each step. The adrenaline is still humming. The shame is pooling behind my ribs. Or maybe it’s something else—something hotter, darker. Then it hits me.
It’s not shame at all.It’s control.
And I don’t have it, but I’m going to take it back.
Starting with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SAM
What the hell was he thinking? Better yet, what the hell was I thinking?
And now that I’m sneaking around after dark like a two-dollar hooker, I’m questioning my own intellect. Why would I expect anything decent from him? Of course, aligning myself to him couldn’t possibly result in anything good.
